Kays Translations

Chapter 62: The Secret That Cannot Be Spoken

Marlon returned to the Blossoming Courtyard with a large roll of blueprints tucked under his arm. By the time he arrived, Adela had already prepared tea and a small spread of refreshments to welcome him home. The scent of freshly brewed black tea mingled with the evening breeze, and the gentle rustle of leaves in the courtyard lent a sense of tranquility to the setting sun.

After dinner, the sound of heavy boots and deep voices echoed from beyond the gate. The visitor was none other than Lisp Copperbeard, who had arrived bringing with him an entire dozen—twelve in total—of skilled goblin gemcutters and dwarven blacksmiths. The rhythmic knock on the great wooden door of the Blossoming Courtyard announced their presence.

At the sound, Lucas, the animal companion of the druid master known as “Claw,” raised himself onto his hind legs by the spring in the garden, his sharp eyes narrowing with vigilance. Seeing that Marlon personally came out to open the door and was now greeting Lisp Copperbeard with warmth and familiarity, the creature judged there was no threat. Lucas yawned, stretched, and lay back down comfortably beside the cool spring, lazily licking his paws in contentment.

“What a beautiful house!” Lisp Copperbeard exclaimed the moment he stepped in, his voice rich and jovial. “Even from afar, it lightens one’s heart. I wager it must have been arranged by none other than Master Conchita the Claw Druid, whose artistic sense is renowned across the land?”

Marlon was taken aback. He had expected the typical dwarf temperament—gruff, blunt, and quick to temper, like those depicted in films and novels back on Earth. Yet Lisp Copperbeard was quite the opposite: polished, tactful, and astonishingly adept at flattery.

“Ah, you flatter me,” Marlon replied with a modest smile as he guided the group toward the sitting room. “You’re right, though—old Conchita indeed lent his hands to planting these flowers and tending the greenery.”

As he spoke, Marlon couldn’t help glancing at the twelve craftsmen trailing behind Lisp Copperbeard. Their faces were lined, their beards flecked with gray. None of them were young—but that, Marlon thought, was reassuring. It showed that Lisp Copperbeard had taken this matter seriously.

The most reputable blacksmiths and gemcutters weren’t defined by brute strength; their craft demanded decades of hard-earned experience. And experience, naturally, came with age.

“The six finest goblin gemcutters and the six finest dwarven blacksmiths in White Sand City are all here,” Lisp Copperbeard announced proudly, noticing Marlon’s attentive gaze. His chest puffed slightly as he added, “Little Marlon, you can test their skills yourself. I’m certain among them you’ll find the ones you need!”

Before Marlon could reply, one of the dwarves—a red-bearded veteran whose arm was thicker than most men’s thighs—couldn’t hold back.
“Little Marlon,” he boomed, his voice deep as a drum, “what is it you want forged? I’m not one to brag, but as long as you give us precise specifications, any one of us six old hammers can craft exactly what you require! Save for the God of Crafts himself, dwarves hold the finest forging hands in all the world—no false boast that!”

No sooner had he finished than a goblin nearly his height, wearing a single crystal monocle over his right eye, piped up indignantly.
“Little Marlon! Do you need a crystal sphere polished to perfect roundness, or perhaps irregular crystal plates of unique form? Not that I’m boasting either—but give us the details, and we’ll finish before those old dwarves even start! Aside from the God of Crafts, goblin gemcutters reign supreme in the art of stone and crystal!”

It was immediately apparent that the dwarves and goblins shared a relationship that was… less than harmonious. The tension between the two groups hung in the air like static before a storm.

Marlon blinked in surprise and shot Lisp Copperbeard a questioning look. The dwarf just chuckled, stroking his thick bronze beard. “Don’t worry, lad. It’s tradition. They say it began when White Sand City was first founded—the first president of the Dwarven Blacksmith Guild and the first president of the Goblin Gemcutter Guild couldn’t stand each other.”

“Huh?” Marlon almost tripped over his own feet. “Because two old guild masters couldn’t get along, everyone’s still keeping the grudge generations later?”

He sighed inwardly. What a ridiculous ‘tradition.’ Definitely one of those… historical leftovers that should’ve been forgotten long ago.

Shaking his head, Marlon led the still-bickering craftsmen into the guest hall. After a polite word of apology to Lisp Copperbeard, he disappeared briefly into the next room and returned with the blueprints he had brought home earlier that evening.

He spread them open across the table—and there it was: the complete design of the Little Tyrant game console, every line precise and detailed.

The moment he began to explain, the red-bearded dwarf—Old Abbey—sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. With startling speed, he snatched the blueprint straight from Marlon’s hands. He stared at it for a long moment, his eyes growing wider and wider. Then he broke into an astonished roar of praise.

“By the Forge! Genius! This—this is the work of a genius! Drawn so clearly—every component, every joint visible at a glance! How could I never have thought of this? How could I never—!”

Marlon nearly laughed. If Old Abbey had known what “Sparta” meant, he would have said he’d been utterly Sparta’d by the sight of it.

The old dwarf trembled from head to toe, gripping Marlon’s arm as though afraid he’d vanish. His small eyes shone with fervent awe. 

“Little Marlon, did you draw these? How did you even think to make them like this? You’ve shown every internal structure and even marked each measurement precisely! This—this is craftsmanship worthy of the God of Crafts himself!”

And indeed, the blueprints were beautifully clear—marked with clean, elegant lines and precise scale ratios. To Old Abbey’s eyes, they possessed a beauty of form that transcended mere function. Compared to this, every diagram he had ever seen before seemed like the chaotic scribbles of a blind impressionist.

“Ah, well…” Marlon blinked rapidly, unsure how to respond. He certainly couldn’t tell the dwarf that this was just basic technical drawing—something any middle-school student back on Earth could manage.

“I see! I see!” Old Abbey suddenly declared, nodding sagely. “It’s a secret! Of course—it’s something I shouldn’t pry into!”

Marlon breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, the dwarf had mistaken his awkward silence for the desire to protect a trade secret—a “forbidden technique” of sorts. That was fine by him; after all, every world had its sense of proprietary knowledge and craftsmanship mysteries.

“Hmph!” A snort came from the side. The goblin leader, Old Shanter, who had been sitting with exaggerated dignity, finally stood up. “You’re making a big fuss, Old Abbey. I refuse to believe a few pieces of paper could be so astonishing. You must be exaggerating again, you bearded fool…”

But as he snatched the blueprint from the dwarf’s hands and looked down at it, his words trailed off.

The room grew silent for a heartbeat.

Then—

“—Hssssss…”

A long, involuntary hiss escaped Old Shanter’s lips as his monocle nearly fell from his face.

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